Mrs. Frick gripped the frame of the door. “I must go.” She looked slightly yellow, like she might be sick, and glided away.
Miss Helen grabbed the checkbook and closed it. “Now look what you’ve done.”
“What have I done?”
“It’s time for luncheon. Papsie wants to meet you, and insisted you join us. But thanks to you, we probably won’t see Mother for a couple of days.”
“Why is that? What did I say that was wrong?” She truly didn’t understand.
But Miss Helen had moved on, and Lillian knew better than to inquire any further.
A surprisingly small mahogany table sat dead center of the generously dimensioned Frick dining hall. A dozen couples could waltz around the empty space if they wanted. Supposedly the table could be elongated for a dinner party, but right now, with only four places set, the airiness of the room felt cold and off-putting. Miss Helen had warned Lillian that her dining with the family was a rarity not to be taken for granted. “Since it’s your first day, though, Papsie insisted.”
Mrs. Frick, to Lillian’s surprise and relief, joined them as well, and was greeted heartily by her daughter. Mr. Frick entered just as the footmen brought out a creamy bisque soup for the first course.
The paintings and photographs scattered about the residence didn’t do the man justice. At nearly seventy, he was both imposing and magnetic, with fierce blue eyes, a neatly trimmed beard, and a massive torso. He walked with the energy of a much younger man, his eyes darting around the room, taking in a footman’s jacket that was improperly buttoned and resting briefly on Lillian when Miss Helen made introductions.
“I hear you’ve lasted a half a day under my daughter’s employ,” he said. “Congratulations are in order.”
Lillian had no idea how to answer him, but luckily didn’t have to, as he’d already turned his attention to his wife and daughter. “Where’s Childs?” he demanded.
“He stayed in Long Island, with Dixie.” Miss Helen turned to Lillian. “That’s my elder brother and his wife. She has three children and is expecting the fourth next month. They don’t tend to visit often, as my brother’s interests are very different from those of me and Papsie.”
“Fossils,” said Mr. Frick. “My boy likes fossils.” He gestured about the room with his spoon. “Here we are surrounded by the most beautiful works of art from the past, and he prefers grubby old bones.”
“He’s quite brilliant in the sciences,” offered Mrs. Frick, so quietly Lillian barely heard her. No one else seemed to, so Lillian gave her a quiet nod of acknowledgment.
“Are the grandchildren girls or boys?” Lillian asked.
“Three girls, so far,” Mr. Frick answered. “Let’s hope this next one is a boy. If so, they’ve promised to name him after me.”
“Now, Papsie, you don’t need a grandson to carry on the family name,” said Miss Helen with a petulant pout. “Haven’t I been happily in charge? Don’t I step in whenever Mother is feeling low? I really don’t see why Childs and his possible son get to be the chosen ones.”
Mr. Frick dabbed the corners of his mouth with a linen napkin. “You know you’re the chosen one. I do appreciate all you do for me, Rosebud.”
Lillian glanced over at Mrs. Frick, who stayed focused on her soup as Miss Helen blushed red as a cardinal. “Oh, Papsie.”
As if on cue, the two of them laughed with a forced hilarity, and Mrs. Frick joined in as best she could at the very end. Lillian got the distinct impression they were all performing some kind of peculiar family pantomime due to the presence of a stranger in their midst. If she weren’t here, she was fairly certain Mrs. Frick would’ve taken her meal upstairs, and Miss Helen would do most of the talking as her father sat in a somber silence.
“Miss Lilly, are you enjoying yourself so far?” Mr. Frick’s blue eyes drilled into her.
“Certainly, sir. I’m pleased to be here.”
Quite the understatement. Two nights ago, her bed had been a slatted park bench. Last night, she’d slept under the roof of one of the richest men in America.
“Whom did you work for, prior to joining our household?”
Lillian’s spoon slipped out of her grasp and clattered down on the rim of the soup bowl. Miss Helen had been so self-involved during the interview, she’d never managed to ask the most rudimentary of questions, and Lillian figured she’d avoided any further inquiry. Apparently not. “I worked for the Joneses of Albany,” she ventured, choosing the most generic name she could think of.
Mr. Frick frowned. “I’m not familiar with them.”
“They wouldn’t be part of your circle, I’m sure,” said Lillian. “Although they taught me a great deal.”
“Miss Lilly knows a thing or two about art as well, Father,” said Miss Helen.
“Is that so? Well, in that case, my love, your new hire appears to be a capable choice. You checked the references of Miss Lilly, didn’t you?” He had a twinkle in his eye, but Lillian wasn’t sure if he was teasing his daughter or not.
Miss Helen hesitated. “References?”
Mr. Frick was about to respond when a loud, musical crash sounded. The organist was back at it, and Lillian gave a silent thanks for the timing, as for the rest of the meal they ate in silence as the solemn strains of choral music reverberated around them.
The music and the meal ended, and Lillian braced herself for further discussion of her unseen, nonexistent references. But the conversation was forgotten as a young man bounded through the door to the dining room, a sheaf of papers tucked under his arm. He was in his early twenties, she guessed, with a boyishly beautiful face topped by a thick mop of unruly curls. He wore round spectacles under eyebrows that curved into imperious arches.
Lillian marveled at the gall of such an entrance, and expected Mr. Frick to roar at the impertinence, but instead, a huge smile crossed his face, transforming his gruffness into sheer delight.
“Archer, you fill our home with the sounds of the angels.” Mr. Frick took the man’s hand in his, giving it a good shake.
“I thought you might like Handel’s ‘Largo’ today.”
“I certainly did. And your ‘Ave Maria,’ simply spectacular.” The man beamed in response before glancing over at Lillian. “Excuse my manners,” said Mr. Frick. “I must introduce you to the newest member of our household: Miss Helen’s new private secretary, Miss Lilly. Miss Lilly, this is Mr. Graham, our music maker.”
Mr. Graham gave Lillian a wink, and all the blood rushed to Lillian’s head, leaving her swaying slightly. The physical response to his attention was like nothing she’d ever felt before, and explained Mr. Frick’s enchantment. With his long, tapered fingers and that untamed head of hair, Mr. Graham exuded a seductive mix of elegance and abandon. A musician with that much charm should be on the stage, she couldn’t help thinking, not tucked away in Mr. Frick’s organ niche.
“Do you have any requests, Miss Lilly?” Mr. Frick asked.
The only tunes Lillian knew were Broadway fare, which she was pretty certain would be met with utter disdain in this household. But as she scrambled for a suitable response, a flash of a memory came to her, of the sheet music sitting on Mr. Frick’s piano in his sitting room, when she and Bertha had popped their heads into his private rooms. “ ‘The Rosary’ is lovely,” she said in an offhand way, hoping that she’d remembered correctly.
Mr. Frick bellowed his approval. “One of my favorites! That’s it, good man, can you play that for me next time?”
Mr. Graham lifted his eyebrows at Lillian, sending another electric shock through her, before answering, “It would be my pleasure.”
After Mr. Graham retreated, Mr. Frick called for his automobile to be brought to the entrance.
“But we haven’t discussed your birthday dinner!” said Miss Helen.
“There’s plenty of time for that.” Mr. Frick rose as a footman glided over to help pull out his chair. “I’m off to the club.”